


Fucking Festive

by dancinguniverse



Category: True Detective
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:04:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinguniverse/pseuds/dancinguniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Marty looks so fucking delighted with himself, grinning and happy, that Rust can't stand it, feels something inside him swell up and almost hurt with how much he wants to preserve Marty like that, fix him that way forever. He tosses the tree skirt and box of bulbs to the hall floor and pushes Marty back through the doorway and up against the wall, pinning him there with a hard kiss and his body crowded in close, Marty's stupid ugly sweater twisted in his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fucking Festive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackeyedblonde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/gifts).



> Because peer pressure apparently does work on me, so here, have some schmoopy old redneck porn. It's all blackeyedblonde's fault. Merry Christmas, girl.

  


"Marty," Rust says patiently. "The fuck is the point of that?"

"What?" Marty asks from his perch on the stepstool, busying himself with a length of fake pine garland that refuses to stay looped over the door frame. He's wearing the fuck ugliest red and green sweater Rust has ever seen, covered with reindeer and mittens, and he's been belting Christmas songs since eight am. He hasn't even touched the egg nog, but Rust figures that's yet to come.

And the mystery of the thing is that Rust isn't even annoyed. He hasn't done Christmas since he was with Claire but apparently living in Marty's house means going all out, and while Rust has been slowly sipping his coffee and reading the paper, their living room has been gradually accruing multicolored lights and elves on shelves and little tumbling Santas. There's a cloying and pervasive candle burning somewhere that smells like sugar cookies on steroids and in the midst of it all, Marty's cheer and complete dedication to the project is softening Rust against his own familiar nature.

In a previous year, before he'd looked death in the eye and taken a new page out on life, he would have simply left, been out the door at the first sign of glass balls and reindeer antlers, probably found himself at the bottom of a bottle sometime after the new year. The kinder, gentler Rust just gives the offending decoration a wary eye.

"Ain't nobody lives here but the two of us. We really need some plastic plants to spice things up?"

Marty doesn't even glance over at the fake mistletoe hung from the center of the door frame. "Shut your mouth. It's fucking festive. Besides, I leave the decorations to you, it wouldn't hardly look like Christmas at all around here. Probably end up with an empty manger scene and a sign that says, 'God is dead.'"

"And Macy's killed him," Rust agrees solemnly, though he can feel the corner of his mouth twitching. Marty's reprimand would hold more weight if he didn't have silver and gold tinsel trailing from his sleeves, but Rust isn't going to tell him that.

Marty points his finger. "You leave Rudolph outta this."

Rust blinks slowly at him, and gets up to wash the breakfast dishes before Marty can see the smile creep across his face. 

* * *

An hour later Marty's moved on to the tree, and Rust has been delegated to search the garage for the tree skirt and spare bulbs, from which he emerges victorious forty-five minutes after he started. 

"Had to dig through three layers of Halloween shit--" he announces just as Marty rounds the corner.

"They might be in the Halloween box, now I think--" Marty is saying, and stops short just before they crash into one another in the doorway.

Rust rocks back on his heels, nodding up at the bright red berries and dark leaves with a sense of inevitability. "Well," he drawls, dry as he can make it. "What a surprise."

And Marty looks so fucking delighted with himself, grinning and happy, that Rust can't stand it, feels something inside him swell up and almost hurt with how much he wants to preserve Marty like that, fix him that way forever. He tosses the tree skirt and box of bulbs to the hall floor and pushes Marty back through the doorway and up against the wall, pinning him there with a hard kiss and his body crowded in close, Marty's stupid ugly sweater twisted in his hands.

Marty's hands come up to cup his face, pulling at his hair just a little, and Rust rocks up against him, licking his way into Marty's mouth, tasting coffee and toothpaste and Marty, just Marty.

"See?" Marty manages when Rust breaks for air, panting into Marty's neck, because it isn't enough, isn't nearly-- "Ain't such a bad addition to--" and Rust jerks at Marty's fly, shoving jeans and boxers down in one impatient motion, and then drops to his knees. He curls one hand around the base of Marty's half-stiff cock and leans in, bracing his other hand on Marty's hip. "Fuck," Marty gasps, his hands clenching and then falling to rest with deliberate gentleness in Rust's hair.

"Rust," he says unsteadily, "You don't have to--" and then Rust takes him in his mouth, and Marty stops talking, at least in sentences. Marty's cock is heavy on his tongue, thick and hot, and it twitches under Rust's attention. Marty moans, his breath coming in little gasps that tear Rust open, make him as hard as Marty feels now, and he writhes inside his own jeans, searching desperately for friction, unable to take his hands off of Marty.

"Holy shit," Marty gasps as Rust strokes him, taking Marty in as deep as he can go, and then backing off when he realizes he's out of practice, and his throat clenches and his eyes water. He slides off, raising his gaze to see Marty watching him with wide, soft eyes. His legs are shaking with the effort of holding himself up. "Rust, Jesus," he murmurs, and then he just moans again when Rust slides his mouth back down, tongue pressing up hard against the length of him.

It's only a few more minutes before Marty starts shaking harder, shivering all over, his fingers pulling insistently at Rust's hair. "I'm there, Rust, I'm there," he gasps. "If you don't wanna--I'm gonna--" and Rust only hollows his cheeks, squeezing Marty's ass and the base of his cock at the same time, and Marty groans loudly. "Fucking Christ, Rust," he chokes out and comes, flooding Rust's mouth and spreading his hands wide against the wall to keep himself upright.

Rust swallows and gentles him through it, and while Marty is still heaving out breaths above him, Rust pops open the buttons on his own jeans and slides a hand inside, pumping himself roughly a half dozen times before he's coming too, gasping and pressing his face into the crease of Marty's bare hip, sucking sloppy kisses into the soft skin under his mouth.

Marty opens his eyes finally and takes this in, and then nudges Rust aside to collapse slowly down to the hall floor next to him. "Jesus," he repeats, and reaches over to pull Rust in close, kiss him deep and long. They're both still shivering with aftershocks, twitchy and breathless, and Marty leans himself half on top of Rust, blowing out a long breath.

"So," Marty says lazily after a minute, leaning his head back against the wall and letting his eyes drift closed. "I think I'm gonna keep the mistletoe. Maybe make it an every holiday thing. Easter. Fourth of July. Arbor Day."

And Rust, loose-limbed and drifting, cracks up. He can't help himself, lets his head fall back and laughs loud and long, the sound echoing through the tiny hall. When Marty looks over, surprised but happy, Rust just shakes his head, collecting himself with a long, expelled _hooo_. "It's fucking festive," he agrees simply, and Marty grins.

"Hallelujah."

  



End file.
